


Baptismal

by yellow_smiley_face



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Psychos in love, That ending was beautiful, but they are not dead, dammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_smiley_face/pseuds/yellow_smiley_face
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they hit the water, the frothing waves seem to absorb them. <br/>---<br/>Post-The Wrath of the Lamb</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baptismal

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, it's been two weeks since the finale and I'm still not over it :'(

         When they hit the water, the frothing waves seem to absorb them. There is a jolt upon impact, but the shock and the freezing temperatures numb Will’s skin until he feels bodiless.

        Hannibal had fastened his arms around him during the fall—a hold so tight that their legs locked around each other and Hannibal’s nails clawed through the back of Will’s shirt. Even then, the Atlantic separated them, like a knife through soft flesh, and they sunk into their own bits of blackness.

        Will’s body is slack as it drifted slowly downwards, the rush of water still thundering close to his ears. He can sense his lungs filling (levels nearing top capacity, expanding the organ’s walls making his chest burn) and he tastes the salt that itched at his split skin and opened eyes. Water gushed into him yet his throat remains lax; an invitation to the sea to drown him inside out.

        Past the darkness, he could see the stag, its legs beating against the water frantically, helplessly. Bubbles erupted from its gawked mouth and flared nostrils. It convulsed, flung its head back, and then went still. The stag drifts passed Will silently, its body blurring at the edges and bleeding into nothing.

        He watches it disappear into the deep then follows.

000

        Will wakes (no, emerges) and he’s alive—

        His body holds life, a notion that can’t makes its way through the cloudy tunnels of his mind. There is still a black tint over his eyes. He’s disoriented and peacefully cold; it’s like he never left the water.

        He blinks (once, twice) and a room begins to form around him—walls, furniture, a window framing a pitch black sky, the bed he currently laid on. He spares a glance at his nude skin, stripped of clothing and almost as pale as the silky white sheet that's gently draped over him. His stomach rises and falls and his breath skims down the tops of his lips. Across his cheek there are stitches covered by a bandage that is slowly peeling off his sweating skin. Another is wrapped around his head, corralling the throbbing headache under his skull into a tight circle. He can feel his other wound to the chest, stitched and bandaged, and a decent selection of bruises scattered about his body.

        Under all this, there is a heartbeat, _his_ heartbeat.

        He is alive.

        Will blinks again, tries to turn to his side, and the _pain_ finally sets in.

        It runs down his spine, dragging its feet along the curves of his muscles and the bends of his joints, making his mouth fall open in a silent scream. His finger clutch at the sheet draped over him and he is left panting.

        “I’ve dressed your wounds, but there was nothing to aid in the pain.”

        Beside him, Hannibal is lying on top of the sheet, sharing in the same nakedness as him. (Will looks and Hannibal catches it, but there is no bashfulness. There’s nothing left for them to be ashamed of.) Will had sensed Hannibal the minute he woke, but he would not allow himself to acknowledge the other body in the bed. Not so fast, not yet. There was still defiance in him.

        Hannibal also sported an arrangement of wounds and repairs: a wrap covers the bullet hole Dolarhyde’s gun pumped in him and his left arm is cradled in a makeshift sling. There are numerous bruises patterning his skin but one seems to burst from the center of his diaphragm, like a dark and swollen centerpiece.

        His eyes are on him, tired and drooped, yet still sharp, still analytical.

        Chest still heaving, Will returns to the position he awoke in (back flat, hands down by his sides.) His forehead sweats under his bandage.

        After a beat, Will sighs, “We’re supposed to be dead.” His voice comes out too thin, garbled and weak.

        Hannibal breathes in. Out, “The time was not right.”

        The statement makes Will nod absently. Of course Hannibal would have decided the rights and wrongs. Even if the push, the fall, the end, was his design, Hannibal had the final say in it. And he said no.

        Will takes a breath and stares at the shadows dancing around the room. “Where are we?”

        “A cabin, not far from the bluff,” Hannibal says. “Temporary, I assure you.”

        They let silence cover them then. Will keeps his eyes steadfastly towards the ceiling. A part of him wished that their plunge had been accepted without a fight, that their lives had been rewarded with an end. But not that the two of them were _together_ , _alive_ , there was no way of escaping this new beginning the rocks and the waves and the bluff had given them.

        When he speaks, there’s something missing from his voice (something left in the water.) “Thank you.” He looks over and Hannibal is waiting for him, his face (lips) inches away from his own. “I wish I had gone with you…earlier…with Abigail…”

        The words leave his lips and Will breaks down in tears.

        Hannibal is silent as he watches, as he reaches out between their bodies and tangles their fingers together, as he whispers: “The time was not right…but now it is.”

000

        Later—an entire year after FBI agents searched for the escaped convict and FBI profiler, tirelessly, meticulously (no bodies found); after Jack Crawford finally, properly, retired, his hands dripping red and his morale at its lowest point; after newspapers and tabloid littered their front pages with “Exclusive Photos’ and ‘Inside Scoops,’ with articles based solely of speculation:

_The two are suspected to have fallen into the ocean, after a struggle…The two are suspected to still be on the run…It is suspected that Dr. Lecter killed both Will Graham and Francis Dolarhyde… Will Graham killed both Dr. Lecter and Francis Dolarhyde…_

_(Will Graham killed them all…)_

        After the widow Molly Graham and her, yet again, fatherless child moved far away from the home they made in Wolf Trap; after Alana and her newly laid family decided “Let’s stay hidden a little longer.” still cautious, still afraid; after Freddie Lounds sealed a deal with a publishing company to write about the epic, tragic, and soon to be a New York’s Best Selling tale of psychotic, cannibalistic love;

        After they fled, recuperated, thrived, and then started their new lives— Will watches Hannibal pull a bottle of wine from their cooler and two glasses from the cabinet. The fireplace is lit, casting a glow around the open living room of their Parisian home. It’s near midnight, the witching hour.

        Hannibal steps down the dividing steps between the kitchen and living room, his red pinstriped suit moving in accordance with his body, smooth yet sharp. He smiles, extends a glass to Will, pops the cork (inhales its scent,) and pours a generous helping into each of their glasses. “1999 Domaine Leroy Musigny.”

        Will hums into his glass as he lets the wine seep down his throat. “Exquisite, as usual.”

         “Nothing less,” Hannibal says. He sips at his glass before placing it gently on a low coffee table. He motions to Will to do the same. “After all, an anniversary is a special occasion.”

        Will chuckles and puts down his glass. “Has it been a year already?”

        “A year since they rose in the same bodies in which they before lived.” Hannibal takes a step forward and lowers his head, eyes leveling with Will’s.

        “Since their souls were lost to the sea,” Will adds.

        A smile tugs at the ends of Hannibal’s mouth. He raises a hand, gaze lingering, and uses the back of his finger to map the jagged outline of the ruddy scar on Will’s cheek. “Falling from a great height, into the ocean’s opened mouth, only to be born anew. It was almost akin to a baptism.”

        Will feels Hannibal’s hand move down. This time, it lands gently on the scar along his waist, pressing it lightly through his shirt. Their eyes catch: “A baptismal I didn’t expect to survive. Yet…here we are. ”

        “It was a becoming, Will.” The space between them disappears as Hannibal steps closer still, his hold on Will’s waist tightening. “You were evolving long before I even met you.” He leans forward and bumps his forehead against Will’s. (Their eyes lock, pupils dilate, hearts that should not be beating _beat_.)

        “And now?” Hannibal’s teeth are showing, grazing Will’s lips, tempting.

        Will shuts his eyes and smiles. “I am become.”


End file.
